Rather Logical
by chloeknightshade27
Summary: Holmes is last request of a prisoner accused of being a thief, a con-artist, and a murderer. Not knowing what he's getting into, he agrees to get her off death row in exchange for becoming part of his team. Holmes/OC. Summaries are pure EVIL.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello there, Dear Readers. Welcome to this fic, my name is Chloe Knightshade. But of course, if you've looked at the top of the screen, you've already discovered that.**

I shall start out by saying that I've been a fan of Sherlock Holmes for a reeeeaaaaaaally long time. I've read all the stories and seen many an old movie. Needless to say, I fell in absolute love with the new film. I've never really considered RDJ as extremely attractive, but the second he became Sherlock Holmes… O.O He's completely gorgeous in that movie. I'm serious: I nearly had a fangirl heart attack when Holmes first said the game is afoot. I know, I'm really weird.

ANYWAY! Continuing onward and getting off the subject that I'm unhealthily obsessed! One thing I didn't like about the movie was Adler. She just bugs me, honestly. At first I was like, 'Yay! Irene!' because I've read the mystery she was in. Then it bugged me how she threw herself all over Holmes. Then she went out and beat up on those two guys, and I was all, 'That's better, good Irene.' Then she just HAD to go act like a skank in the hotel room. That scene never ceases to annoy me. First she does all that getting dressed blehness, then she drugs Sherlock. I can understand knocking him out like she did. Handcuff him? Sure. But she just had to take off his clothes. *grumble* No class. Not that a shirtless Holmes is a bad thing, but that's not my point at the moment. Once I decided I didn't like her, the number of times she nearly died were like teases. Every time you shriek 'Hallelujah, she's dead at last!' she ends up living. Darn.

SO (now that I've reached my point) I decided to write a OC fic for my old friend Holmes, because he deserves better. I decided to write it based upon the movie because I like Holmes and Watson's chemistry in it better, I loved scruffy eccentric Holmes, and I much prefer Watson as an able partner rather than a plump little man who usually doesn't have any idea as to what's going on.

Chapter One

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, or Doctor John Watson. Which means that me locking them in my attic like I have is entirely illegal. But they don't mind. ^.^  
**  
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221B Baker Street had recently taken on the tense quality it usually adopted before the residency became consumed with chaos. Wisely noting the signs of the inevitable, Mrs. Hudson had hurriedly left, looking frantic and making the excuse that she needed to go to the market, despite the fact that she'd purchased groceries the day before. Gladstone had hidden under a chair, which wasn't unusual in itself- the chair was the bulldog's usual area it retreated to.

Watson was walking into each room in succession, a gradual frown forming on his face as he searched for something that just couldn't be found. His face grew grim and his blue eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. "Holmes." He muttered darkly, before calling out toward the upper rooms. "Holmes?"

There was no answer, and Watson began ascending the stairs much like the way one would creep up on someone in an ambush. The doctor called out again, this time more forcefully. "Holmes?"

He'd reached the person in question's room, and wasn't surprised to find the door suspiciously locked. Watson promptly banged his fist against the door. "HOLMES!" he all but shouted, frustration evident in his tone.

The noise of someone tinkering that had been coming from the other side of the door stopped suddenly. There was a flurry of things being shuffled around, and Watson started slightly as the door swung open.

"What?" a man with unruly dark brown hair and intelligent brown eyes demanded from the doorway, looking at his companion in an expression that could only be described as affronted. Smudges of brown were streaked across his face randomly, and he was clutching an odd circular metal object that seemed to be the source of the mysterious brown liquid.

Watson didn't look the least intimidated, instead he crossed his arms and regarded his life-long friend with a look of suspicion. "What on Earth are you doing? And what is that?" he nodded his head at the metal device in Sherlock Holmes's brown stained hands.

The detective raised an eyebrow before shrugging casually. "No idea. But they were once Nanny's spoons, I think." Watson took a deep breath- no doubt about to reprimand him- so Holmes hastily continued, "I was merely curious as to whether adding certain agents would increase the rate at which the spoons melted. So I've been repeatedly melting and solidifying them for the last two days straight. Did you know that Nanny's spoons are not entirely silver? Which explains why I was able to melt them without having to-"

Watson cut him off, remembering why he was up here in the first place. "When we finished unpacking my things in the new house, we found that one of the boxes containing my things seems to have… vanished. Have you seen it?"

"You are quite aware that it's extremely rude to ask someone a question and then interrupt in the middle of their explanation? In fact, I do believe you've mentioned it to me more than a few of times."

Watson ignored him, "Holmes, what did you do with my things?"

Holmes looked highly affronted again as he walked back into his room and began rummaging around in his chaotic assortment of things, "And how do you know that _I_ took them?"

"Oh, yes. Because Gladstone just walked off with my clothes and medical supplies in tow." Watson snorted, growing annoyed as he followed his stubborn friend into his room.

"Don't be ridiculous, Watson. However, you are forgetting another person with possible motives for stealing your personal items." Holmes scoffed, not looking up. When Watson rolled his eyes and failed to prod him further, Holmes sighed and continued, "Did you inspect Mrs. Hudson's rooms?"

"What could she possibly want with my things?"

"Perhaps she's erecting a shrine in your name." Holmes grinned, looking amused and shooting a glance at Watson to see his reaction. He cleared his throat when Watson glared at him instead of chuckling. "Or maybe you're forgetting that she doesn't want you to leave either."

"Good God, not this again." Watson groaned, and Holmes continued speaking over him.

"After all, she's made it quite clear that she doesn't want to be alone with a person like me-"

"I believe the term she used was a madman like you, amongst the other things she referred to you as." Watson pointed out. "And she can always get another tenant. Besides, it's not like Mrs. Hudson to invade my rooms and take things. She leaves that to you. Now where is that blasted box?"

"I don't see why you had to leave here now anyway. Your wedding is months away." Holmes waved one his hands dismissively as he picked up a bottle and sniffed its contents. He shrugged and took a chug of it. He wrinkled his nose and made a face before tossing the contents into the fire going in the chimney, which proceeded to turn an odd shade of blue. Holmes then dropped the silver ball back onto its melting pot with a satisfied nod.

"For the hundredth time, it's in seven weeks!" Watson ran a hand through his short brown hair in exasperation. "And I'm getting the house settled before we officially move in."

"Speaking of which, that is incredibly out of character, Watson. It's nothing short of scandalous." Holmes wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Mary is going to remain living in her current home until the day we wed." Watson scowled, "And you know that."

"Speaking of scandals," Holmes continued as if he hadn't heard Watson speak at all, "This has been an awfully short engagement."

"We've been officially engaged for plenty of time!" Watson yelled in exasperation, throwing up his hands.

At the same time, Holmes shouted with an air of triumph, "You've impregnated Mary, haven't you?"

"Mary is NOT pregnant, Holmes!" Watson shot back, glaring at him.

"Are you quite sure? She's been looking rather larger of late." Holmes smirked. He abruptly assumed a shocked expression. "Or perhaps the baby isn't yours?"

The two men glared at each other, Holmes only mildly succeeding at not looking amused. Watson put his hand to the bridge of his nose and sighed. "You're being completely ridiculous. Mary is not pregnant, not with my child, not with anyone else's. Nor has she gained weight." his gaze suddenly flickered over to a stack of papers on Holmes's table, and he took a step toward them, "Is that the mail? I specifically told the post to mail it to my new residence."

Holmes suddenly dashed over and scooped up the letters, tucking them in his pocket. Watson blinked. "What now?" he demanded.

"This is my mail." Holmes replied, looking serious.

"No it's not, I distinctly saw my name on the recipient line." Watson took a step towards Holmes and he took a step back in response.

"No, it clearly says 221B Baker Street." Holmes shook his head emphatically. "And you no longer live here, so-"

"It has my name on it!" Watson protested, "And technically, as some of my things are still held hostage here, I haven't fully moved out yet." He took another step toward Holmes, who shook his head again and took two steps back.

"It's my mail, I can do as I want with it."

"Holmes, you're acting like a child." Watson said quite calmly before lunging forward in a very mature manner. In moments the two were struggling over the thin wad of letters.

Watson managed to slip a letter out of Holmes's grasp after backslapping him, and he read the front address, grumbling when it turned out to be written to Holmes. The detective smirked, holding up the letter addressed to Watson in a mocking manner.

Watson stared at the letter in his hands, his eyes widening slightly. "Holmes, the sender's address is the Scotland Guard…"

Holmes tried his best not to seem intrigued, but he leaned forward slightly. "They probably just wanted to send their regards."

Watson shook his head. "When was the last time they sent you a thank you note? Moriarty's case hit a dead end three weeks ago. And Mrs. Hudson's poor silverware's paying the price." The doctor paused and turned the letter over. "This must be important. It's been stamped by the head warden of the prison."

Holmes held out his hand expectantly. Watson looked at his hand and snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. Hand me mine if you want yours."

Holmes rolled his eyes and held out Watson's letter stiffly. Keeping their eyes on the other, both men reached out and snatched their rightful letters back before hurriedly opening them.

Watson let out a huff of disappointment. "Just a thank you letter from a patient. What's your letter…" he trailed off, looking at Holmes, who staring at his own letter quizzically. "Holmes?"

"It seems I'm someone's last request." Holmes answered after a moment. "And oddly enough, I don't believe I put this person in jail… The name is absolutely unfamiliar to me."

Watson walked over and took the letter without Holmes protesting. His eyes trailed over it and he paused, "E. Hawkins? Hawkins? It's a common enough surname."

Holmes shook his head, "The name means nothing to me…" He was staring intently at the letter when he abruptly walked over to his table and picked up his hat. "I'll go."

"What?" Watson raised an eyebrow. "You don't even know the man."

"Which makes it all the more interesting." Holmes replied, looking around. "Have you seen my shoes?"

"Have you seen my stolen box of things?" Watson countered, crossing his arms.

It took Holmes half a second to remember what he was talking about. He let out a defeated sigh. "Under the stairwell."

"Thank you." Watson nodded, "Your shoes are in the dresser."

"Whatever for?"

"Why would I bloody know?" Watson shrugged as Holmes scooped his shoes and jammed them on. "You were fully intoxicated when you put them there, if I recall correctly."

Holmes looked up expectantly at Watson. "Well. Get your coat."

Watson shook his head. "I'm not coming."

"But-"

"No, Holmes. You're going to have to get accustomed to the fact that Blackwood was my last case. Absolute last. No more. _You're_ the final request, not me." Watson said firmly, walking out of the room. He poked his head in again, "However, I do suggest you wipe… whatever that is off your face before you leave. And putting on a clean shirt probably wouldn't hurt either." His head disappeared around the corner.

"_You_ put on a clean shirt." Holmes muttered at the shut door grumpily.

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"Mr. Holmes, you came." A guard blinked, obviously surprised.

"You lot never cease to amaze me with your great gift of stating the blatantly obvious." Holmes replied, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. His face was completely free of all streaks, and he'd even taken Watson's advice and put on a new shirt.

The guard's face flushed slightly, and he seemed at loss of what to say for a moment before he cleared his throat awkwardly. "Erm… follow me, sir." He muttered.

"Splendid idea." Holmes said with false brightness and he followed the guard through the pathway between cells.

"I'll open it up for you." The guard said as they stopped in front of a cell. Holmes squinted into it, but all he could see was the outline of a figure that seemed to be both ignoring them and paying close attention to them at the same time. How queer.

Holmes looked at the guard with mild surprise. "You're opening the door?"

The guard nodded. "I'll have to lock it up again when you've gotten in, but you'll be fine. This one hasn't been dangerous yet."

"The yet part was awfully encouraging." Holmes muttered. The guard took out a key ring from his coat pocket and began slowly trying to identify which was the key to cell.

Holmes suppressed the urge to fidget in impatience. He glanced down at the key hole and back at the key ring. He jabbed his finger at one of the keys. "Try that one." The guard nodded slightly and slipped the key into the lock, quickly twisting it. It unlocked immediately with a click and the door swung open with a creak. Holmes stepped in with only a moment of hesitancy, and soon after, the door to the cell shut.

A light suddenly sputtered to life, illuminating the cell. Holmes blinked to let his eyes adjust, and was surprised to hear a voice that was distinctly feminine.

"Sorry about the lamp being off. It just feels as though I've memorized every inch of this cell, and suddenly it was annoying me to death. It reminded me of how horribly boring everything is." The voice said, sounding mildly amused. It had the usual English lilt and had a refined air about it. The way the person spoke, however, sounded as if she was quite capable at twisting her speech into a replication of other accents.

Holmes opened his eyes quickly, and looked in the direction of the voice. A slim young woman sat on a bunk, studying him intently with bright blue-green eyes. She was wearing what must have been a dress from the prison, as it was cotton and a dim gray. Her hair was loose and fell approximately five inches or so below her shoulders; it was straight until near the end, where it waved slightly, a red that leaned toward being brown a touch. Her skin was neither pale nor tan, just a healthy peach, with a couple of freckles across her cheeks and nose. If he had to guess her age, he'd say early to mid-twenties.

She spoke again. "I do appreciate your coming here, Mr. Holmes. I was afraid you wouldn't show up." She stood, and she was of average height. She held out her hand, "Emilia Hawkins."

Holmes slowly took her hand and shook it, too busy trying to remember her to really pay attention to what was going on. He definitely hadn't been expecting someone like this. The letter had said that the person in question had been arrested for forgery, con-artistry, theft, and the suspected murder of three individuals. He'd been expecting a tall and mildly muscular man with a way with words. Not a young woman who was staring at him with such calculating eyes.

"I must admit that I am puzzled, Madam." Holmes said finally after they had dropped hands. "If my memory serves correctly, and it usually does, we've never before met."

"Then your memory's in perfect working condition." Emilia half smiled. "But I'm afraid that while you're a stranger, you're also my last hope. As they've probably told you, I'm due to be killed tomorrow. Lethal injection." She spoke in an off-hand way, but he could see that her next breath was shaky and she'd clenched her knuckles.

"And you want me to prove that you're innocent." Holmes guessed. He'd heard it before. Usually there was a longer amount of time between the assigning of the case and the execution…

"No, actually." Emilia shook her head, "That's proved impossible. Besides, I'm not entirely innocent of all of my charges." A brief mischievous smile played at her lips.

"Then, I'm sorry. I have no idea how I can be of assistance to you." Holmes said, trying to sound indifferent.

"That's actually where you're wrong, Mr. Holmes." Emilia sat down once again on her bunk, staring up at him with determined eyes. "I know for a fact that the Scotland Guard is in your debt. Deeply. You are the one person they'd pull a favor for, excluding the Queen." She took a deep breath before continuing, "I need you to convince them to drop my allegations and put me in your charge."

Holmes blinked and leaned against the opposite wall, staring at her intently. "My, you certainly don't waste time on trifles."

"If you like I could make small talk about the weather." The corners of her mouth twitched upward.

"But that would annoy you on the inside, wouldn't it? You're very good at hiding your emotions." Holmes said aloud, reading her face critically.

"If I wasn't, I wouldn't be very good at what I do." Emilia countered.

"For instance, anyone else would take your casual tone and easy body language as an indication that you're not very troubled by the fact that you're due to be executed tomorrow. But your hands are shaking of their own accord, you hesitated when you mentioned your impending death earlier, and your voice cracked when you asked me for that… favor. This all leads me to believe that you're extremely frightened about tomorrow's scheduled events, even if you are good at hiding it." Holmes announced, waiting for her reaction.

"I'd be psychologically disturbed if I wasn't." she shrugged, not seeming at all offended.

"True. But by the way you talk I can tell you're far from it." Holmes nodded slightly. "And yet you expect me to agree to take a complete stranger who's also a confessed thief, con artist, and murderer out of prison."

Emilia sighed. "I swear, two of the murders weren't me. The third was… a misunderstanding. As for the other accusations… I am what I am, Mr. Holmes."

"Then, pray tell, why should I agree to get you out of this… situation?"

Emilia straightened, "Rumor has it that you're the best detective there is, Mr. Holmes. That you can take the smallest of details and use them to solve impossible crimes. Though they probably aren't as keen as yours, I myself have a similar gift. I assure you, solving mysteries isn't the only occupation that requires such acute senses. After all, to pull off the perfect crime, one has to have everything perfectly planned, every detail memorized so vividly that it doesn't attract attention."

Holmes leaned his head forward slightly. "And despite your intellect, here you sit behind bars."

She scowled slightly, looking at the floor. "I made a mistake. I thought I could trust someone that I couldn't. And they told the police my whereabouts. And as I'm framed for murder, here I am." She sighed. "Mr. Holmes, all I'm asking for is a chance."

"I'm afraid you're asking for far more than that." Holmes paused for a moment, looking intrigued despite himself. After all, he had been shut up in his room for quite a few days straight, he didn't have any leads on any cases, and he was so bored he'd been reduced to torturing spoons. This by far had to be the most exciting thing since Blackwood's case. Suddenly, he straightened. "Tell me everything you can about me based upon what we've said so far and what I have upon me at the moment."

Emilia promptly stood, walking closer toward him, looking him up and down. After thinking, she spoke, "You were in a squabble today. You've a bruise developing here," she indicated to the spot on the back of his neck, "Which leads me to believe that he man who struck you was taller than you were, seeing as you're generally unmarked from your shoulders down. It wasn't a serious fight, because judging by the angles of your bruises, it's likely he was in a good position to hit your pressure point and render you unconscious. That spot, however, is specifically bare of marks, which tells me that the man you fought with knew about the body and he made sure he didn't seriously injure you."

"Is that all?" Holmes asked, trying to sound casual, though he was mildly impressed by the deduction. He eyed the woman more carefully.

"Not at all." Emilia frowned, shaking her head, "You've also got light burns on your fingers, some of which are still red. So you've been doing something involving fire recently. A faint smell of metal on your being and a drop of hardened silver clinging to your pant leg indicate that you were doing some form of metal working. You have bags under your eyes, which are mildly bloodshot. You didn't sleep well last night, maybe not the night before either." She gestured toward his jacket, "May I?"

Holmes regarded her for a moment, "No. No, I think I've seen enough." Emilia shrugged and once more sat on the bunk, looking back at him as he debated what he'd stumbled upon. She appeared calm, but he could tell she was nervous. Subconsciously she kept tugging at her sleeve as she waited for him to speak.

Holmes's mind was racing. Here he was, sitting in front of someone whose intellect seemed nearly matched to his own. And since Watson was so sure he was retiring- though it was highly improbable that he actually would- he found himself needing a companion of sorts once more. At least until he was triumphant at berating some sense into Watson's thick skull. Then again, he knew nothing of this stranger yet, except that she was intelligent, tricky, and probably going to make a bolt for freedom the second he put his guard down.

"Mr. Holmes?"

He looked up, and Emilia was biting her lip, looking reluctant to say the least, "Mr. Holmes, I'm begging you, as much as it pains me to admit it. I'm not one for begging." She took a deep breath, "But if you say no, I'll be dead by this time tomorrow. I really do think we'll both benefit by this deal. You'll get another partner, and I'll get to keep poisonous liquids out of my bloodstream." She attempted at humor, but her voice was close to cracking. "Please."

Homes sighed and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up slightly. He looked up, and his deep brown eyes met her light teal ones. He faintly could remember words Inspector Lestrade had spoken to him a few weeks before.

_"In another life, Holmes, you would have made an excellent criminal."_

He'd dismissed the words and countered them with a witty insult, but now as he sat thinking, for once Lestrade hadn't been far off. Surely he could have been a crook, if one thing from his past had been altered, even if it had been seemingly insignificant at the time. He looked up at Miss Hawkins again. It wasn't too farfetched to believe that he had been capable of doing exactly what she'd done.

"Surely you are capable of escaping from this place." Holmes lowered his gaze to the floor. "Why don't you?"

Emilia sighed, looking bitter, "I'm tired of running, Mr. Holmes. I do believe I've been doing it my entire life. I don't know," she said honestly, "Maybe when the time comes tomorrow I'll make a break for it when the fear increases. Maybe I'll get out of the country and lay low for the rest of my life, still hiding, still running. But I want to avoid that. I want to be free, Mr. Holmes. I don't want to spend the rest of my existence in fear that I'll wind up in this exact same position."

Holmes sighed again, signaling for the guard to come back down the hallway and unlock the door.

"Mr. Holmes-" Emilia began hurriedly, desperation creeping into her tone.

He cut her off. "I'll talk to Lestrade and convince him to release you as best I can." He gave her a long look. "I rarely do things on good faith unless I have good reason to. Don't make me regret this decision, Miss Hawkins. Good day." And with that, he stepped out of the cell and purposefully made his way to the cabby, shouting at him to hurry to Scotland Guard, still thinking unceasingly.

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"Mr. Holmes." A small, mousey looking man regarded him with an agitated sigh from his desk, "What are you doing here?"

"Inspector, always a pleasure to see you too." Holmes grinned, before reminding himself not to be infuriatingly sarcastic. He came to ask for something, and getting the man in a foul mood was not the best of ways to start everything off.

Lestrade snorted. "Have you gotten any leads on the Moriarty case, or something of that nature?"

"Actually, no. Not yet." Holmes shook his head, hating to admit that even as he said it.

"Then why-"

"I've come to ask for the release of prisoner 5203." Holmes interrupted, figuring that he might as well get on with the point.

Lestrade's brow furrowed, and he consulted a file on his desk. "Emilia Hawkins? She's due for execution tomorrow."

Holmes took a deep breath, trying not to get annoyed. "I know. That's why I'm asking for her release _today_ instead of _tomorrow_." He said slowly, as if talking to a five year old. Not that he was comparing Lestrade to a five year old- he was slightly taller after all. Plus, Holmes had met many five year olds with more hair.

"Con-artist, suspected murder…" Lestrade shook his head firmly. "Out of the question. She's been accused of far too many crimes, and she hasn't even confessed to all of them. We suspect she's done plenty more than what we've got on her." The Inspector looked up. "Why on Earth would you want to release her?"

"Have you spoken to her?" Holmes asked, getting excited despite himself. "Her intellect far surpasses anyone I've ever encountered- save a few people, myself included. She's honed her powers of deduction by applying it to her line of work, which is why you can't pin much on her. She's asked me to make a deal with her. She'll join my team and in return, she gets released."

Lestrade looked incredulous. "Good Lord, Holmes. You actually believe this? As much as you hate to admit it, you've been manipulated by criminal women before." Holmes gritted his teeth. How the Inspector wormed his way to the knowledge of his personal life was beyond him. Of course he would bring up Irene Adler, who'd mysteriously vanished from the authorities just hours after her capture. Mysteriously vanished and failed to contact Holmes afterwards.

Lestrade didn't seem to notice Holmes tense up and he continued. "The second she gets out of here, she'll make a run for the countryside, and we won't hear from her until a priceless artifact disappears and winds up on the black market."

"She won't." Holmes replied confidently. "I don't know how I do, but I know she won't make a run for it. She seems like she's honestly sick of being chased down by the authorities."

"Seems being the key word, Holmes." Lestrade sighed, closing the file.

"Put her into my custody, Inspector." Holmes said quietly. "If for some reason she does escape, I myself will finance any cost the police has to utilize to track her down. I give you my word."

"…Have you met this woman before?"

"No. I just spoke to her for the first time moments ago."

"Then why would you do such a thing for her?"

"Inspector, imagine spending your entire life knowing that the only people who can relate to you, to the way you think, are on the other side. Against you. And suddenly someone who's willing to join up with you appears, and you find she is _brilliant_." Holmes muttered seriously. And it was true. Who was he really close to? Watson was his only friend, and while he was not nearly as clever as the detective, the good doctor was shrewd as well. But now he was leaving to be married. Irene? Irene was on her own side, not fully against him, but definitely not fully with him. Moriarty? Holmes nearly snorted out loud. Moriarty was anything but on his side.

And miraculously someone had shown up, nearly fitting the description he'd been looking for. True, she _was _a woman and a criminal, but for the moment he was willing to overlook that. And he knew quite fully that the only reason she was on his side was that they had a mutual need at the moment. But for now, that was as close as it got.

"Why should I even consider this?" Lestrade asked, sighing.

"Because I recently saved Parliament." Holmes smirked slightly. "You, Inspector, owe me. This is a small thing to ask of in return. Of course, if you still refuse despite that, I am sure I can take it up with one of the Lords whom I saved that day…"

Lestrade paled slightly. "You wouldn't."

"Tell me, Inspector. Are you quite fond of this office and that elegant mahogany desk?"

The smaller man scowled, burying his face in his hands and groaning. "Holmes, you'll be the death of me."

"You're far too kind. A lot of the credit shall have to go to your general lack of physical exercise and your fondness of cake." Holmes replied, forgetting himself.

Lestrade growled before whipping out document and signing it angrily. He nearly threw it at Holmes. "Here's the order for her release into your custody. But I'm warning you, Holmes, if she does escape and you can't pay for her capture, it'll be _you_ sitting behind bars."

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"Watson, are you still here?"

"Of course I'm still here!" the doctor shouted. "When you said 'under the stairwell' you neglected to mention that the box was truly in the back of the large cupboard under the stairwell that's filled with junk from God knows what! What the devil is a stuffed boar's head doing in here anyway? It bloody well nearly stabbed me with its tusks."

Watson managed to get himself halfway out of the closet, a large brown box being dragged in his wake. "If you think, Holmes, that I find this amusing, you're sorely mistaken! I was fighting my way through there for the last hour and a half!"

"Watson, we have company." Holmes announced, shifting over to the side to reveal Emilia, who was smiling ever so slightly. "Or rather, I have company, and it includes you, as you no longer live with me." Holmes added.

Watson straightened. "I'm terribly sorry, Madam. I had no idea that Holmes was accompanied."

"Perfectly alright, Doctor. I'm sorry for intruding." Emilia grinned.

"Actually, if we're going to be technical, you're her guest too, Watson." Holmes said casually. "She's going to be the new tenant."

Watson's expression went from polite to concerned. "As this house's former tenant, I feel inclined to warn you, Madam." He pointed at Holmes. "That man is not entirely sane."

"I object!" Holmes protested, but Watson ignored him.

"You look like a kind and intelligent woman. And so I hope you take my advice and decide to run. Now. Quickly. Miss…?"

Emilia chuckled, "Hawkins. And I'm afraid I've no other choice but to board here."

"Hawkins?" Watson shot a look at Holmes, "E. Hawkins?"

"E. Hawkins." Holmes confirmed, looking pleased.

"Emilia. It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson." The corners of the young woman's mouth twitched upwards.

"…And you as well… Holmes? May I have a word?" Watson asked, looking bewildered.

"For you, my dear Watson, an entire dictionary." Holmes grinned cheekily.

Watson sighed at the bad joke. "No, Holmes. Might I speak with you alone?"

Holmes shrugged and followed Watson into the dining room next to them. "What?" Holmes hissed.

"_That_ is E. Hawkins?"

"I do believe that we've established that."

"The prisoner?"

"Watson, if you've become this lack-witted in the short amount of time we haven't done a case together, imagine how you'll be three months from now." Holmes said dryly.

"You invited her to live here." It was more of a dubious statement than a question.

"Indeed."

"Why? Why would you take a criminal out of prison and into your home? Do you have a death wish, Holmes?"

"On the contrary, it's all rather logical. She needed to get out of jail and a place to stay, and I needed a new partner. Besides, she's a great mind."

Watson glanced over into the other room, where Emilia was staring intently at the room, taking everything in. Watson turned to Holmes with a puzzled look on his face. "She looks at things like you do."

"Precisely." Holmes nodded, glad he'd caught on.

"I can't believe Lestrade agreed to this." Watson sighed, shaking his head.

"He didn't have much of a choice, did he? I'm a national hero." Holmes grinned.

"As you've mentioned to everyone many times." Watson smiled despite himself.

"Mr. Holmes, I don't mean to interrupt, but would you mind showing me my rooms?" Emilia asked from the hall, fidgeting.

"Of course, one moment." Holmes called back.

Watson sighed. "I hope you know what you're getting into, Holmes."

"Of course I don't. What fun would there be if I knew absolutely everything instead of nearly everything?" Holmes said cockily, leaving Watson and returning to the hall.

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WELL, there you have it readers! Chapter one! I hope at least a few of you liked it! And if you did, you know what you should do? Review please! But do refrain from incinerating my confidence as you do so.

Some points:

Yes, yes I did pull the 'You put on a clean shirt' line from the movie, except there it was a jacket. What can I say? I love that line! Actually, I love the whole movie! *see beginning A/N rant*

Yes, I couldn't think of a better last name than Hawkins. But you know what? I needed a last name someone could say alone and it still sounded good, like Watson or Holmes. So I decided on Hawkins.

This chapter didn't give much insight into Emilia, I know. But the next chapter will. After all, they've all only just met.

I've no idea exactly how long an engagement was back then. But oh well. Please don't go nuts about that.

I do approve of Mary. She bugged me at first because, but I realized it's because her actress plays a character I really don't like in Pride and Prejudice. But I finally got over it, and I think she's okay now. Plus, I love her dresses. ^.^

Please review! It means a lot to me!

~Chloe Knightshade


	2. Chapter 2

**Why, hello there dear readers! I was surprised that I got a response so quickly. *looks around* So this is what it's like to write in a fandom that's newerishyish. Huh.**

Well, thank you all for the lovely reviews! I actually wasn't quite sure if I was going to continue writing this, but I think I'll keep going. Sorry about the wait, I'm still having a fun time ironing out this story's many kinks. Note the dry sarcasm in the previous sentence.

It was brought to my attention in one of my reviews that I put down Scotland **Guard**** instead of ****YARD**** in the first chappie. I'm extremely embarrassed, but I didn't go back and change it because I only said it three times, and I'm too lazy. So please excuse that. This is why doctors suggest people get 8-12 hours of sleep a day. Me, the insomniac that I am, generally get five, if that. My thought process is sometimes affected in strange ways. As is my noun usage.**

Also, yes, hangings were the common way of killing criminals back in the day. However, I know that women weren't hung for a while. Though I'm not sure about my dates. But, yeah… so I randomly sped around to lethal injections, figuring that maybe one guy could've considered injecting poison into people. I know that it all overally doesn't make sense, but go along with it, please?

**Anyway, I hope this story will continue to please some people *little bow*. This chapter should get into Emilia more. Remember, her last name is Hawkins, so if someone addresses someone as such, it's her they're referring too.**

Chapter Two/ Dos/ Deux

Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock Holmes. Neither the movie nor the works of Sir Arthur Canon Doyle. Poo for me. But the good news is, Watson and Holmes have agreed to behave, so I've let them out of my basement. They much prefer it this way.

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Sherlock Holmes was nearing his wit's end. Well, perhaps it's better to say he was running out of patience. A lack of wit in the detective would be the equivalent of the apocalypse, in his opinion. Now a lack of patience, however, wasn't cause for too much alarm. Unless you were the _cause_ of the decreased patience. Then it would be in your best interests to evacuate the vicinity.

The peace had lasted approximately eight and a half days.

He was beginning to wonder if he had ever met someone so infuriating in his existence. She'd seemed relatively open in the prison, probably because she'd had nothing to lose. But now the afraid young woman who was struggling with her options was gone. The second they'd become partners- or whatever their deal made them- she became nearly impossible to read. And nothing bothered him more than not comprehending something.

She'd stop talking the second they ever approached the topic of her history, she took to occasionally locking herself in her room- especially after they'd just argued over who knows what, and worst of all to him, she had a horrid habit of not agreeing with him a good amount of the time.

Their deal had put two alpha-type personalities into generally close quarters, and it seemed to not be working too well at the moment. Neither was used to being in an environment where there was someone of the same high intellect, and while it was indeed stimulating and interesting, it caused quite a few spats fairly quickly.

Holmes was entirely unused to someone complaining so openly and matter-of-factly. Watson had lasted months before he even yelled at Holmes. Shouting was becoming more and more frequent at 221B. Mrs. Hudson was nearing a state of panic.

Not that the Nanny hadn't already picked favorites. Bloody con-artist was too good at being polite for her not to have. And thus far, Emilia's quirks didn't appear as potentially destructive as Holmes's.

There was a short knock on the door, and Holmes looked up from his newspaper to glare at it. "I haven't gone through your things today, I _swear_. Though I still can't _fathom_ why it would upset you so much if I had." He grumbled at the door.

It swung open with a creek, and rather than seeing a certain red-haired woman, he saw Watson standing there, holding his hat in one hand and his coat in the other. A look of relief flashed across Holmes's face. "Watson! Watson, thank God!"

"Holmes, what _are_ you doing?" Watson raised an eyebrow as Holmes flung himself out of the chair and rushed past him, shutting the door hurriedly, as if frantic. He gave a little sigh of relief once he'd shut it, and he walked back over to his seat.

"Watson, I'm going to go mad." Holmes announced gravely, plopping back down in his chair with a solemn expression.

Watson sat on the sofa, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "From how you're acting, I'd say you don't have much farther to go."

"This is a matter of utmost seriousness!" Holmes snapped, shaking his head, "That woman is so… infuriating!"

"Who, Miss Hawkins?" Watson said in disbelief. She'd seemed innocent enough. Polite. She had an air of stubbornness about her, he had to admit, but surely…

"What other woman could I be referring to, Watson?"

"Surely you're being overdramatic?"

"Since when have I been overdramatic?" Holmes demanded, looking a bit taken aback.

"Oh, my mistake. You're certainly not overdramatic. What _could_ I have been thinking?" Watson snorted, sarcasm dripping through his question.

Holmes rolled his eyes and sighed impatiently, "I'm going to ignore that, as it's not the problem at hand."

"But she was very polite, very sweet. I find it hard to believe that-"

"No! No, no, no, no!" Holmes shook his head emphatically, "Don't give in Watson, that's what she wants you to think!"

"Honestly. You make me sound like a Fury." Said a voice from the door. Watson turned. Emilia was leaning against the doorway, her expression somewhere between annoyed and amused. The prison dress was gone, replaced by a moderately simple white dress. A turquoise brooch that made her eyes stand out was fixated on a black string that was tied around her neck.

Watson cleared his throat, rather embarrassed, but Holmes simply half-scowled. "Did it occur to you that my door was shut for a reason?" he demanded.

"That did dawn on me, funnily enough. I just chose to ignore it." Emilia retorted. She gave a half smile in Watson's direction, "Good morning, Dr. Watson."

"Good morning…" Watson replied, looking confused.

Emilia turned back to Holmes. "You went through my things, didn't you? My copy of A Tale of Two Cities was an half an inch or so out of place. The dust ring from its earlier position gave you away, Holmes." Funny how she'd so quickly dropped the Mister portion of his name.

"Really?"

"Yes." Emilia's eyes narrowed. "How long do you plan on testing me like this, and invading my personal rooms in the process?"

"Until it bores me." Holmes shrugged indifferently.

She let out a frustrated sigh and sat in the second armchair, crossing her arms. Watson looked between the two. "Do I want to know what happened?"

There was a moment of silence in which the two tenants glanced at each other briefly and scowled before turning away. "Nothing much happened, actually, seeing as I've been stuck in here. I can't legally leave without him coming too, unless it's a state of emergency." Emilia huffed. "And someone won't even take one quick walk to the park and back."

Holmes glared at her. "How many times must I tell you, woman, that I don't feel like venturing out into the world at the present? There's-"

"Absolutely nothing of interest for you out there, at all." Emilia and Watson chorused in monotones, both shooting each other amused glances.

Holmes's eyes narrowed. "If I've said it so many times, you'd think you'd have comprehended it by now."

"Well, the same goes for me telling you not to go through my things!" Emilia countered. "Not even a day after they're sent over here, I find you poking around in them!"

"It was vital that I find out whether you're carrying any weapons that I should know about." Holmes protested defensively.

"You are aware that he enjoys playing the violin at two in the morning?" Emilia turned to Watson, who frowned.

"Painfully so."

"She took my ink pot without asking!" Holmes interrupted before the woman could appeal to Watson's capable memory.

Emilia threw her hands up in exasperation, "I ran out of ink in the middle of a drawing, so I _borrowed_ it!"

"You could have asked!"

"You would have said no!"

"That's not _my_ problem."

"If it's not your problem, then why do you care that I took it in the first place?"

"Because it's the principal of the matter!" Holmes nearly shouted. The two glared at each other.

"Let me get this straight… You two have been fighting over an… ink pot?" Watson stated, raising an eyebrow.

"Over the principal of it!" Holmes repeated angrily, whirling around toward Watson.

"No, we've been arguing because Holmes doesn't care for people to have opinions." Emilia shook her head.

"Only when the person's opinion is wrong." Holmes corrected her, agitation even more prominent in his tone.

"Oh, so it's automatically wrong if it's against yours?" Emilia snorted.

"More than ninety percent of the time, yes!" he shot back.

"That's impossible. Not even you could be right that amount of the time. It's scientifically and mathematically impossible." she scoffed.

"Don't use science against me, you've already expressed your views that your literature is far more important." Holmes glowered at her.

"I never said it was more important! I just said I usually prefer it. Literature is a form of expression, whereas science lacks imagination!" Emilia protested.

"Without science, we would still be roaming around the plains in deerskins, chanting for it to rain!"

Watson tried to break in, his alarm growing as the two people in front of him glared daggers at each other, "Why don't we try to go about this rationally-?"

"Without literature and the like we wouldn't have been able to chant!" Emilia retorted, interrupting Watson.

"I think that they're both important-" Watson tried again.

Holmes turned his glare on his friend, breaking his attempt at peace. "Watson, you're a medical man! Don't belittle your field of expertise! Science is why you've been able to save lives, man! Grow a backbone!" Watson's eyes narrowed, and he was about to tell off Holmes when Emilia jumped in.

"Literature changes and touches lives!"

"Well, science is the study of life!"

"Well, literature-"

"HOLMES, I CAME TO INVITE YOU TO DINNER!" Watson bellowed over their bickering, his annoyance breaking through. The two stopped in mid argument and stared at his outburst. Watson cleared his throat, mildly sheepish. "Well, I did. But unsurprisingly I never got the chance."

"I would love to!" Holmes jumped in quickly, suddenly desperate to get out of the house.

"Mary will be there."

"Quite alright."

"Oh, Miss Hawkins, you're invited too, of course."

Holmes blanched, "Nevermind. I can't. So sorry."

Emilia rolled her eyes and Watson narrowed his. "You've already said yes, so you're going. And Miss Hawkins is coming as well, if she pleases." He looked over at her. "God knows she wants to get out of this house, and frankly, I can't blame her." Holmes sputtered with indignation and Emilia smirked slightly.

"I'd love to have dinner." She nodded, and Holmes groaned.

"Watson, do you really want to expose your future wife to a criminal?" he demanded.

"As far as Mary knows, or anyone else for that matter, Miss Hawkins is Mrs. Hudson's niece by marriage. So there isn't going to be any talk of anything illegal." Watson shrugged. "Plus, she's been exposed to you Holmes. If Mary is in danger of corruption, you're the cause."

Holmes began to protest, but Watson shook his head, "No."

"But I-" he tried again weakly.

"No." Watson stood and shook his head again, grabbing his coat as he did so.

"But she's-" Holmes pointed at Emilia, who tensed up, ready to argue again.

Watson cut him off before another quarrel broke out. "No!"

"Watson, you can't leave me!" Holmes managed, "Do you care nothing for the state of my sanity?" he shouted.

Watson didn't answer as he made his way to the door. "Dinner is at seven at my house. Holmes, Miss Hawkins." With a tip of his hat, Watson shut the door and made his way out of the house, grinning.

Perhaps someone opposing his views would do Holmes some good.

A thought struck him and Watson froze, not even blinking when a carriage wheel flung muddy water on his once-well polished shoes. He had just reached the rather obvious epiphany that he had just invited two intelligent people, one of whom was eccentric to say the least, who hated each other, to dinner. At his home. Where his belongings could be accidentally smashed or used as weapons. Not to mention his poor fiancé was going to have to sit through all of it. _HE_ was going to have to sit through it all. "Oh my Lord…" he muttered. "What on Earth have I done?"

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Emilia let out a frustrated sigh. She was silent for a moment, and Holmes thought she was planning on staying that way. But of course that was wishful thinking, "That newspaper is five days old, you know." She said in what was near to a monotone. Obviously she was making an attempt to be civil.

"Really?" Holmes said dryly in mock surprise. "I hadn't noticed."

She rolled her teal eyes heavenward as if she was looking for divine intervention. When she looked back at him, she sighed again. Probably disappointed he wasn't smited with Hellfire, Holmes mused.

"Look." Emilia turned to him, her face once again unreadable. He mirrored her expression, but added a slight smirk. "I know these past days have been a bit-"

"Like Hell?" Holmes interjected.

Emilia took a deep breath and continued. "Of an adjustment. Obviously you're unused to having anyone other than the Doctor as your roommate. And quite honestly, you're driving me mad."

"I assure you, the feeling's becoming mutual."

Emilia kept going, obviously ignoring him, "I'm grateful for what you've done for me, Holmes, but I'm not gifted with the nearly endless supply of patience Dr. Watson is undoubtedly blessed with. But I need this to work for obvious reasons."

"So what exactly are you proposing?" Holmes looked over at her. She had her legs crossed and her elbow was propped up on her knee, her head resting on that arm's hand. A smudge of ink streaked across her cheekbone from where she'd accidentally smudged it- probably while drawing. He'd seen her sketchbooks when he'd investigated her room earlier. Despite her easy composure her eyes were still calculating as she watched him. He wondered if others felt this uncomfortable when he studied them.

"I'm not quite sure." Emilia muttered. "This would all be so much easier if you weren't so… stubborn."

"Me?" Holmes raised an eyebrow, frowning. "_I'm_ stubborn?"

"If you must know, then yes. Take right now, for instance. You were hostile the moment I walked in the room because you'd already decided that we were going to fight. Heaven forbid you change that decision when I try to be somewhat polite and try to work this out."

"Is that what you're trying to do?"

"I'm obviously not succeeding."

"Obviously."

Emilia glared at him, and he glared back, their gazes locking. The noticeable tension in the room increased, "What I'm trying to say," Emilia finally continued, not breaking eye contact with Holmes, "Is that I will be civil at dinner if you are."

Holmes paused to think it over before nodding, "I suppose that will work."

"Good. Something we seem to agree on." The corners of her mouth twitched upward and she stood, sweeping out of his room.

Holmes watched her leave, shaking his head as he did so. He suddenly froze, staring hard at the room around him. Something was out of place. Something was wrong. "… BLAST IT, HAWKINS!" he suddenly shouted, "WOMAN, WHERE DID YOU PUT MY BLOODY INKPOT?

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Watson was seriously contemplating packing up his bags, grabbing Mary, and sprinting off to the station to board a train that would take them far out of London, far from England, and as far from his dinner guests as humanly possible.

That or possibly suicide. It would probably be less painful.

Mary had already arrived at their soon to be home, and she seemed perfectly calm. Actually, for some reason Watson couldn't fathom, she found the whole situation amusing.

"Dear, do sit down. You're going to wear the rug down to thread where you've been pacing." His fiancé informed him, glancing up from one of her well-loved detective novels.

Watson made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, continuing to walk across the same area repeatedly. "I suppose the seriousness of this situation hasn't dawned upon you yet?" he asked, running his fingers over his moustache in an anxious manner. "Holmes will be here any minute, unless he and Miss Hawkins have killed each other in the amount of time that has elapsed since I left them." Watson paused. "But I suppose that's too optimistic a hope."

Mary laughed lightly. "I think you're exaggerating. Two people can't hate each other so soon after they meet each other. Especially if they have as much in common as you say they do."

Watson waved a hand dismissively. "Yes, yes. They're both exceptionally brilliant. But I do believe that that makes Holmes both excited and threatened. And so in his usually warped way of conveying emotions, he's acted in a manner so that the poor woman practically hates him."

"Practically?" she asked, turning a page as she read.

"Well, she's very hard to read. I can't exactly be sure if she's actually feeling how she's acting or not." Watson muttered, "Which is driving Holmes mad." Mary cast him a wry glance, so he corrected himself. "Madder."

"Well, I'm sure Holmes will adjust soon enough." Mary shrugged delicately, and ignored her fiancé's snort of disbelief. There was a light knock on the door, and Watson jumped.

"Dear God in heaven, they're here. Are you sure you object to relocating to Bermuda?" Watson asked hurriedly, and Mary rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"Answer the door, John."

Watson slowly walked to the door and took a deep breath before bravely opening it. A short little old woman, rather stout, beamed up at him with what were probably dentures. "Hello?" Watson asked questioningly, hoping it wasn't Holmes in disguise. But the detective would have to have shrunk two feet, and that seemed unlikely.

"You ordered some flowers?" the old woman asked, smiling up at him.

"Did I?" he asked in a bewildered voice. He looked over his shoulder at Mary, who shrugged and came up behind him.

A smile spread across her face. "Oh, these are quite lovely." She gently took the bouquet from the woman and studied them. Pale gray flowers with an assortment of other colors thrown in, making it look like a pastel rainbow. Contrasting the rest of the bouquet, a single black rose sat on top of the others. "They'll be perfect for the table tonight." She smiled up at them. "Thank you, dear."

"I didn't order flowers." Watson frowned, looking over at the lady. But if Mary liked them so much… He reached into his coat pocket to pay for the flowers, but the old woman shook her head.

"No money is needed, Sir. They've been paid in full." She told him, before muttering her thanks for their business and hobbling off.

Mary found a vase in one of the boxes that were tucked neatly away and filled it with water before setting it down on the table cloth and arranging the flowers in it. "Perhaps it was Holmes who sent them."

"Why on earth would Holmes buy me flowers? For that matter, why on earth would Holmes buy flowers _period_? He's allergic to all things that can be used as a sentimental gesture." Watson snorted. "I should have known it wasn't Holmes. Since when has he knocked?"

Both turned from the flowers as a sharp rapping on the door, before it suddenly flew open. Holmes stood in the doorway, smirking slightly. "I knocked." He beamed, and Watson suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. But at least he'd changed- thank the heavens- and into something nice, no less. Emilia was wearing the same clothes that she'd been wearing earlier that day, and she offered them a friendly smile, though he noticed the two were both regarding the new room around them. Probably memorizing it or something odd like that.

"I noticed." Watson half-smiled. "Mary, this is Miss Hawkins. Miss Hawkins, my fiancée Mary."

"Hello." Emilia smiled at the other women, and Mary grinned back.

"It's so nice to finally meet you, Miss Hawkins." Mary said politely. "How are you related to Mrs. Hudson, again?"

"I'm her niece by marriage." Emilia replied smoothly, and if Watson hadn't known better he would have thought it was beyond a doubt true. "And please," she added, "call me Emilia. You too, Dr. Watson." Holmes didn't try to hide his obvious eye roll.

"Then you must call me Mary." Mary smiled, "And I must say, I adore your dress."

Emilia grinned, though inwardly she was trying not to wince. Girl talk. How long ago was the last time she'd done that? Searching her memory, she could only come up with the last time she'd spoken to Ann- no. She refused to dwell on that, especially not now. "Thank you. I love yours as well. Blue's one of my favorite colors."

"And yet you often choose to wear white, absent of all color. Why?" Holmes interjected from behind her.

Emilia didn't turn around and continued to speak to Mary. "He went through my things." She explained, and Mary tsked with a small smile.

"Might we all go to the sitting room until dinner?" Watson suggested, since Holmes looked peeved at being ignored. As they all turned, Watson noticed Holes looking intently at Mary's stomach.

"My dear Mary," Holmes began. "Have you been feeling any bouts of nausea, mood swings, or strange cravings for odd foods?"

"Holmes." Watson growled warningly, before hissing so Mary couldn't hear, "She is not with child!"

Holmes held up his hands in mock surrender, trying not to laugh, "I was simply making sure."

Watson rolled his eyes and continued to quickly usher them onto the couch, strategically trying to sit the Emilia and Holmes away from each other. It ended up that the two women sat down on the couch with Holmes in the armchair nearby, while Watson hovered, too nervous to sit.

There was a slight moment of awkwardness before Mary began chatting to Emilia about the usual conversational topics: how she liked London thus far, the weather, upcoming social events-

"Oh, I'm usually not one for extremely public events." Emilia shook her head, a wave of red escaping her bun to curl slightly against her chin. "Sometimes it's too much to take in." Watson shot a glance at Holmes, who, for reasons known only to himself, was focusing intently on his shoe.

"Too much to notice." Holmes muttered, his tone agreeing. All three of them stared at him for a moment.

"Did you just agree with me?" Emilia blinked at him.

"Well, I've found that only three fourths of what you say is actually rubbish. The other fourth occasionally makes sense." Holmes looked back up at her, and her eyes narrowed.

"Ha ha!" Watson broke in with a false laugh, clapping down on Holmes's shoulder, hard. "Holmes, you joker. That was an excellent one, old chap."

Holmes turned his head, scowling up at him, "But I was being entirely seri-"

"I do believe dinner is done!" Watson burst out, hitting Holmes's shoulder again with more force. "Shall we?"

Holmes rubbed his now-bruised shoulder and stood, glaring at Emilia as they all walked into the other room. Not helping Watson's nerves, he walked next to her, and she turned to look up at him. "If _this_ is your idea of civil, I'd hate to see you embrace savagery." She hissed, obviously furious.

"Already have, practically." Holmes let a smirk slip out. "Besides, you started it."

"Me?"

" 'Please call me Emilia, Mary. You too, Dr. Watson.'" Holmes mimicked, his voice rising to a whiny falsetto.

"And what's the matter with that?" Emilia whispered back, rolling her eyes.

"You pointedly left me out of that. And then you ignored me."

"Because you asked a personal question!"

"Oh, yes. Heaven forbid you actually reveal something about yourself." Holmes muttered dryly.

"You're insufferable." Emilia whispered at him, glad that they were taking seats now, and that gave her an excuse to end their conversation.

Watson was nearing his state of panic again. Perhaps he was to house a permanent stay there for the rest of his life. Strategically, he was stumped. How in the name of Queen Victoria was he supposed to arrange them at the table?

One thing that was certain, Mary was not sitting next to Holmes. His fiancé had already reached dangerous levels of exposure to the detective. Being a medical man, Watson knew that the disease Holmes had- namely insanity- was not in fact contagious. But he had learned never to doubt Holmes's ability to defy normality, and he was not willing to risk Mary.

So, with the air of a martyr, he plopped himself down next to Holmes, who'd already lounged on one of the chairs, absentmindedly regarding Emilia, who'd taken the seat next to Mary- directly across Holmes. Not that this was incredibly ideal, but unless Watson wanted to have them sitting on opposite ends of the room, this was as good as it was going to get.

"Watson, please confirm that we won't be ushered into another room in the next five minutes. I'm beginning to feel like a migrating salmon." Holmes stared pointedly at him, and Watson scoffed quietly.

"Nonsense. Fish like water. God alone knows the last time you bathed." Watson muttered back, smirking as Holmes frowned at him.

A maid gingerly sat down a bowl in front of each of them, before ladling some steaming soup into each. Holmes scooped some up with his spoon, sniffed it, and then with a nod he delicately took a rather dainty sip. He nodded again and focused his attention on the soup. "I do enjoy a good cream of mushroom."

"As do I." Watson nodded, picking up his spoon as well.

Holmes looked back up at Emilia. "So… I do believe you never provided the answer to that color question."

Emilia dropped her spoon, all pretenses of peace fading from her mind. Yes, she was in a tight position, but she blatantly refused to put up with this man silently. "Why are you so insistent?" she demanded, glowering at him.

"Why are you so secretive?" Holmes shot back.

Emilia ignored the question. "You're stubborn because you're used to things going your way. You were a well off child with both parents, and you were usually given what you needed. But you couldn't stand the rules a child of society must go through, could you? Because you don't like being told what to do!"

"You're probably an orphan, judging by how detached you are from family. You never mention them." Holmes retorted, looking ruffled that she'd found something on him. "How many years did it take to get away from the orphanage?"

"Two." She snapped, glaring at him. "You didn't make many friends did you? People rarely like a person who outshines them, especially if they aren't apologetic about it."

"Funny thing for you to say, isn't it?" Holmes glared at her. "Considering that you're quite obviously one of a loner persona. That, and you didn't receive any visitors when you were on dea-" Holmes suddenly broke off, glancing at Mary, who'd quickly lost the gist of the argument and was looking extremely confused. "Deportation in America!" he quickly amended, saying the first thing that popped into his head.

"Banishment in America?" she hissed, low enough for his ears only. Holmes merely shrugged in response.

Watson, seeing a break in the deduction war, suddenly spoke. "Would you two kindly quit? Honestly, you're behaving like a bunch of school children."

"Hawkins started it." Holmes muttered, and Emilia stuck out her tongue at him, forgetting herself.

"I did not!" she grumbled back.

"If you had just answered in the entryway, this never would have happened! So, obviously you were the one who started all of this!"

"What? That's absurd! Knowing you, we'd still be arguing about something else anyway! So you started it!"

"I DON'T CARE WHO STARTED IT!" Watson yelled over them, "I'M FINISHING IT!" There was a moment of shocked silence before someone spoke.

"My Lord, John. You sounded frighteningly akin to your mother right then." Mary put in, sipping her soup calmly, having decided to stop trying to follow the conversation

"Terribly pushy person, isn't she?" Holmes commented to Mary, his tone much calmer, even though he and Emilia were still glaring at each other.

"We are not discussing my mother!" Watson nearly shouted, banging his fist down on the table and upsetting his soup.

A sudden scream pierced the air, and everyone fell silent. The air was suddenly thick with tension, and the whole table turned their heads toward the doors to the kitchen, where the scream had come from.

"Abigail?" Mary called out quietly, addressing the cook but not leaving her seat. Her knuckles clenched the armrest, turning white. "Abigail, whatever is the matter?"

The cook burst into the room, shaking. Her face was as white as the floor that coated her apron, and her eyes wider than the saucepans in her kitchen. Her voice shook when she spoke, and her words were fragmented, as if she was struggling to speak. "'S… a man… in the alleyway…" her eyes widened even more, and the words tumbled out of her mouth, "He.. I tink he's dead, ma'am! Blood 'n cuts 'n the like all o'er him, there is. Twas Milly who screamed, ma'am, she found 'im when she was puttin out the peelins."

A stunned moment of silence fell over the group once more, and Emilia glanced back at Holmes, who's expression was critical, a mask of calm and thought. Watson looked grim and thoroughly shocked, but it was Mary who was having the hardest time handling the news. Her pale hands flew up to her mouth and she let out a little gasp of surprise. "John?" she barely whispered, and her fiancé stood and began to make his way toward the kitchen.

"Mary, stay here. Miss Hawkins… I suppose you'll follow whether I think this is an appropriate sight for a woman or not. Holmes…?"

Holmes stood as well and walked after his friend, Emilia immediately rising too and brushing past him, to his annoyance. Watson marched through the kitchen and to the back exit, shooting a sympathetic glance at a young woman sobbing in the corner. Milly, the scullery maid, and the unfortunate finder of the body, was shaking in hysterics. The rest of the staff was unsuccessfully trying to calm her.

With grim hesitance, Watson slowly eased the back door open, cringing as he saw what had affected the young woman in such away.

**((A/N: So, yeah. The following belongs to part of the reason for the T rating. Because of sort of nasty dead people. I promise it's not too bad. But if you're the very faint of heart or stomach, I suggest you skip the next paragraph or so and insert the new space left with: 'There was a very nastily murdered dead man on the porch.' Or, 'PUPPIES PUPPIES PUPPIES PUPPIES!' Whichever's better for you. That is all.))**

Emilia stiffened, her hand going to her mouth, hardly believing this mutilated creature was once a human being. Blood pooled from various cuts streaked haphazardly across its body, leaving deep gashes where severed muscles dangled uselessly out to meet newly decaying flesh. The crimson liquid had pooled along the floor of the alleyway, shimmering in the lamplight and reflecting the three's shocked faces back at them.

The cuts were jagged, leaving the edges of the wounds ragged and frayed. Two parallel cuts went up the side of the poor man's neck, and the blood from his mouth met the red streaks somewhere near his ear. The man's waistcoat was drenched in blood, suggesting that there was damage underneath that laid unseen. In the waistcoat's pocket laid a single black rose, its petals sheening with blood.

But it was his eyes that unnerved her. They were glassy and bright blue, gazing sightlessly over her shoulder even as his ratty blond-red hair covered them, matted and streaked with still more blood.

**((A/N: Okay, nasty's over. It wasn't that bad, was it? . . . PUPPIES PUPPIES PUPPIES! ^.^))**

"Dear God…" Watson muttered, closing his eyes.

Holmes looked away and inhaled sharply, blinking a few times before reluctantly returning his gaze back to the body. "Dear God, indeed."

Watson finally opened his eyes. "The face is oddly unscathed…" he commented.

"Which suggests that the murder was impersonal." Emilia put in, her voice holding a faint tremor. She cleared her throat and crossed her arms to keep her hands from shaking. "The cuts don't suggest it was a cult kill either. It's not precise. It's… vicious, not methodical."

"And how did you come to know so much about crime scenes?" Holmes asked, looking up at her. She was paler than normal, her skin nearly white against her flame of red hair.

"A friend of mine tried to reform me half a decade back." Emilia shrugged. "I worked with the police for a bit."

"But…?"

"Too boring."

"Ah. …Do you know this man, Watson?" Holmes asked, glancing over at the doctor, who had cautiously stooped closer to the body for a better inspection.

"No… I don't believe I do…" Watson shook his head. His head shot up at a new gasp sounded from the doorway. A look of obvious recognition crossed Mary's face as she took in the body, having come to investigate despite Watson's warning.

Watson quickly grabbed her before she hit the sidewalk as she fainted.

**-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-**

**So, Chapter Two! Review, Dear Readers! It makes my day. Please, no flames, because I still don't have enough confidence to deal with that. Constructive, polite criticism is always appreciated, and so are all other comments.**

Oh, and the boys were particularly good today, so I've agreed to let them help me with my author's notes. Say hello boys!

Holmes: What on Earth is this contraption? Moving pictures and an interactive notebook that stores information on a broad range of subjects? Woman, why did you not inform me of this feat of pure genius technology?

Watson: Do quiet, Holmes! I'm trying to watch House! The little boy is plagued with a mysterious disease causing his liver to-

Holmes: Might I be permitted to take apart this contraption, and- wait! What time is it?

Me: Seven.

Holmes: CRIMINAL MINDS IS ON! MOVE OVER, WATSON! MOVE OVER! THE PICTURE BOX MUST TELL ME OF ANOTHER GRUESOME MYSTERY! MOOOOVE! I'M GOING TO MISS THE CATCHY INTRODUCTORY MUSIC!

Watson: NO! THE LITTLE BOY'S LIVER IS IN A STATE OF DISREPAIR AND HOUSE MIGHT BEGIN TO COURT DOCTOR CUDDY!

*the two begin wrestling for the remote*

Me: *sigh* You two aren't very good at this… … I'll go get the first aid kit…

Review, please?

~Chloe Knightsahde

P.S.: I abhor cream of mushroom soup. Actually, I rather detest all mushroom type foods. But it was the first soup to randomly pop into my head, so viola! Tada! Cream of mushroom soup! Yes, this is entirely irrelevant!

…Review!


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello there Dear Readers… Ahem… First off, I'd like to apologize.**

Holmes: *snort* Of course you do. You went on a pathetic slump in this story, which probably crushed their nonexistent hope that they placed in you. They probably think you've died. Or hope you did.

Me: Shut up. I originally set out to put this one up faster, but I'm getting a lot of time taken up by school, as well as a lot of brain juice-

Watson: … Brain… juice?

Me: Yeah. Brain juice. So, as I was saying, school has a nasty tendency to deplete a lot of my brain function-

Holmes: Isn't that the truth?

Me: UGH! I'm trying to write an author's note for Doyle's sake! Just go ahead and do my disclaimer and then GET OUT OF MY ROOM! Or do you want another bloody nose, Watson?

Holmes: I am still terribly sorry for that, old boy…

**Me: But what did we learn from it?**

Watson: That your home has more than one picture box, so fighting over the bigger one is pointless.

Holmes: And that the picture box is not at all pleased when all of its controller-rectangle's buttons are pushed down all at once. Oh, and that you scream in frequencies of ultrasound when agitated! And you take the term 'throw pillow' rather seriously-

Me: T.T Just disclaim. Quickly.

Watson: Miss Knightshade does not own the literary characters of us, nor does she own the dashing actors who portray us in the long moving picture show. The idea for our two characters and a couple of others she uses all belong to Sir Doyle.

Holmes: The woman is just creating a story using our charming, good looking, intelligent selves because she can. She does not own us, period, but she does own a now broken picture box. And herself, as she hasn't been abducted by suspicious persons yet. And she owns a psychotic, unintelligent beast she calls a dog. And some modern technology she won't let me take apart to examine. And many books. But that's basically it.

…****

They had something to do with my stupid television. I just know it. Anyway, I apologize again for how long this took. I'm still not very sure where I'm going with this.

Chapter Three/ Trois

-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-

"Mary… Mary, dear…" Watson said softly, gently shaking his fiancé's shoulder. Concern was etched over his face. "Do wake up…"

He'd carried her into the living room and laid her gently across the sofa, careful not to jostle her too much.

"Perhaps if we got some water…" Emilia suggested, feeling rather awkward. In fact, the entire evening-no, the past two weeks had been awkward.

Not for the first time she wished that she'd cut her losses and broken herself out of prison instead of appealing to Holmes, who was proving with startling efficiency that he was indeed the most insufferable man she'd ever encountered. And when the majority of your life had been spent moving from place to place, meeting petty thieves who enjoyed nothing better than to annoy people in between jobs, that was saying something.

How one man could be so brilliant and infuriating at the same time was inconceivable. Honestly. No personal boundaries, a disregard for privacy, those stupid tests he challenged her with, and his general nosiness. And there was nothing more she detested than nosiness. Her business was her own. Period.

She'd figured that as a partner-sort of- to the detective would mean crime scenes, but she honestly hadn't betted on a gruesome murder to be their first assignment. Maybe a nice, blood free stealing of precious artifacts. Or a simple lost old woman who couldn't find her way back to the asylum properly.

But no. Of course she would happen across a disgusting butchering of what was supposedly a human being. Once again, luck was on her side.

"Yes. A good bucket of water to the head should do it nicely." Holmes said helpfully from the doorway, keeping guard over the body while waiting for the Scotland Yard to show up. He was crouched next to the body at an alarming proximity, and Emilia figured that if she were to barely poke his back he'd go toppling into the carnage face first. Not that the thought was tempting her.

"Holmes." Watson warned in a thoroughly agitated voice as he continued to try to revive Mary.

"Or one could simply slap her." The sleuth added, sounding quite pleased at the idea.

"Holmes!"

"Just making a suggestion, don't be so touchy." She saw his back straighten as he stood, turning to give a glance in her direction. "Hawkins, get over here and take a look over the scene yourself before the Yard messes everything up."

Emilia scrunched up her nose, but walked back through the open doors to stand by his side. His chocolate brown eyes gave her a sharp look. "Well?"

Emilia hiked up her skirts so that she could walk around the body easier, and Holmes gave her something of a smirk.

"You wear men's trousers under your skirts often?"

"On occasion." She huffed defensively. "It's bloody difficult running in a dress."

"Oh, I know." He grinned in amusement, and she frowned at the comment, raising an eyebrow.

"…I'm not going to ask."

"That's a first."

Emilia kept herself from sticking her tongue out at him and forced herself to look at the body once again. "He was dragged here." She announced.

"Oh, _bravo_."

"Shut up. _Please_. At least we know he was killed somewhere other than this alleyway." She added testily. She made a gesture at the body, "May I?"

Holmes raised a brow. "Be my guest."

With a little surprise he watched her bend over and gingerly dip the tip of her finger into the pool of blood, muttering all the while. When she removed it, she announced, "The body's been dead for at least two hours. The weather's mild today, plenty warm. But his blood is quite chilled. So either he was kept in someplace very cold, or he's been lying dead in a gusty alleyway for a few hours."

Though he was pleased at the remark, Holmes kept his face impassive as he nodded to her. Popping his head through the doorway, he addressed his friend inside. "Watson, do check with your kitchen staff to see who was the last to look outside and when- excluding the actual finding of the body. Oh, and hurry and revive your lady. We're to question her before the Yard does."

"You're taking on the case?" Watson frowned.

Holmes blinked before rolling his eyes. "No, old boy. I'm just going to ignore the fact that a body was found at your doorstep while I was present."

He looked back to Emilia, who was gently flicking the bloody clothing. "It's expensive, but not worth it. Probably didn't even know that his silk shirt had cotton weaved through. Poor fellow was probably hustled."

"Gullible, wealthy, young," Holmes listed, memorizing what he could deduce about the young man based off what laid before him. "Handsome. Married, but having an affair."

Emilia looked up and quirked an eyebrow at him. He sighed. "Ring hidden in his pocket. Not bloodied, which suggests it was concealed there prior to his murder. The fact that it was a single ring and not in a box tells that he wasn't planning on proposing today, and he hardly seems the type to take the band off for manual labor. Thus implying that he was married and seeing a mistress who knew nothing of it." He gave her a look that he would indeed admit was smug. "Odd you should miss that."

"I hadn't gone through the pockets yet." Emilia gave him what was best described as a pout, her auburn hair brushing into her face in the breeze.

Flicking it out of her face, she fingered the black rose in the body's lapel. "There's blood under it. So it was tucked in there after the killing. The black's obviously symbolic, but the-"

Suddenly Holmes grabbed her hand and- despite her protest- pressed her fingers against the man's chin so that it fell open.

"God in heaven, Holmes!" she snatched her hand away, wiping it on her pants. She looked quite green, he noted happily. "That's disgusting!"

"So says the woman who was poking around in his blood only moments ago." Holmes shrugged. "And believe me, I'm about to embark on something far more foul."

He leaned over toward the mouth and took a deep sniff above it. Emilia's nose crinkled. He came up, looking a tad nauseous. "Yes, well, he hasn't been drinking lately, nor was he drugged most likely."

"… Um … I'm going back inside now." Emilia said, looking mildly disturbed as she unfurled her skirts, stepping away from the body. She held the hand that had touched the dead chin away from her body. "And I'm going to scrub my hand before I catch some disease."

"Pity." Holmes quipped as he watched her stalk off, smirking involuntarily. He cocked his head slightly as he observed her retreating form, beginning to ponder something.

Why was he so intent on setting her off at every moment? He certainly didn't want her to run off- he'd get stuck with the blame for it and probably be hauled off to prison. And he couldn't lie to himself, being alone with Nanny at Baker's Street would probably be unbearable. And, those few times when they weren't fighting, they'd actually had an impressively intelligent conversation that he'd found quite stimulating. Of course, that conversation had led to another large quarrel, but still. It had been interesting.

As he watched Emilia scrubbing profusely at the kitchen's sink and muttering different curse words, the reason why he felt so compelled to annoy her to death became quite clear in that moment.

It was simply entertaining. Even better than bothering Watson, who had indeed bickered with him before, but never so intensely.

Emilia wiped her hands on her skirts when she was satisfied that they were clean, still mumbling angrily under her breath. She turned and looked up as Holmes swept into the kitchen, apparently done with examining the body.

"Used enough soap, have you, Hawkins?" he asked innocently, raising an eyebrow to her.

She glared at him, "Yes, but I did save you some to wash your mouth out with."

"Woman, I merely inhaled the man's breath. I didn't lick him."

"What a relief, I was worried about you trying that." Emilia replied dryly, "However, I was referring to use it as a remedy for that string of profanity that escaped your mouth."

Holmes sighed, "What are you talking about? I haven't sworn-"

Emilia walked by right at that moment and suddenly slammed the heel of her boot into his shoe, hard. Holmes yelped and let loose a long list of unmentionable words under his breath.

"What in the name of Queen Victoria Reginald-" Holmes started, hissing, but Emilia cut him off.

"Next time, use something else other than my hand to poke about a corpse with." Emilia informed him, sounding detached. Not angry, but not pleased either. Like she was somewhat amused with the pained state of his toes, but unwilling to admit it.

Holmes scowled as she exited the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder and adding, "And I'm telling Mrs. Hudson that you've been using foul language in front of me again."

Stiffening, he glared at her as he made his way out of the kitchen as well, refusing to limp. "You are not!"

Watson looked up as the two came into the living room, one after the other. By the smug look on Emilia's face and the glare Holmes was shooting in her direction, he guessed that the two either just had a fight, or were about to embark on one.

Oh, bother.

"Really, Watson. Is Marry _still_ unconscious?" Holmes gave his companion a knowing look. "Or did you slip her some narcotics when we were out back? I can't blame you for wanting her to stop talking for a period of time."

Watson narrowed his eyes at Holmes. "When she wakes up, she may be catatonic."

"What a pity."

"_Holmes_." The word was infused with warning.

Seeing the seriousness in his friend's eyes, Holmes immediately backed down considerably. He put his hand to the bridge of his nose and sighed loudly. "The Yard will be here soon. I'd rather be the one to interview her first when she awakens. We should take her to Baker Street, and let her wake there."

"Do you have a carriage waiting?" asked Watson.

"No," said Holmes, looking mildly annoyed. "Because someone wished to walk here." He sent a look at Emilia, who rolled her eyes.

"We'll just hail a carriage." Watson said quickly, hoping to put out the spark before it hit the fuse.

Emilia spoke up, "Someone has to wait and meet the Yard."

"Right then. Watson and I will take Mary, and you can receive them. After all, you're on such friendly terms with them." Holmes deadpanned.

"No, because you and I can't be a hundred feet from each other." said Emilia impatiently. "Watson can take Mary and we'll both stay here."

"But I don't want to have to deal with the Yard." Holmes frowned. "They have approximately the same intellect as a toasted muffin. _All together_."**  
**  
Watson internally groaned, making an extremely hard decision. But he knew what had to be done.

"Holmes, you and Emilia take Mary to the rooms, and I'll wait for the Yard. I need to examine the body myself anyway."

The two turned to stare at him, waiting patiently for the moment he would quickly come to his senses and take back what he'd just said. When he didn't, Holmes's mouth became a thin line. "Are you sure, old boy?"

A sigh escaped Watson's throat. "Yes. Just don't experiment on her, or dangle her halfway out the carriage window, or leave her unattended on a park bench to see if the homeless come after her." Here he gave Holmes a hard look. "Please."

"Or," he turned to Emilia, "Take anything from her person."

Emilia pretended to look affronted. "Who? Me?" She took that moment to innocently and discretely place a crystal figure back onto the counter it had originated from, instead of up her sleeve. She smiled sweetly.

Watson sighed, stroking his mustache with two fingers- an old nervous tick that hadn't appeared until the faithful day he met Sherlock Holmes. "Alright then. Go on."

With an extravagant mock-salute, Holmes opened the front door, inviting Watson to carry his fiancé out.

Watson frowned. "You're not going to help me?"

"Why? Are you implying that Miss Morstan has recently become heavier? Do you suggest that she is, in fact, fertile?" Holmes smirked, unable to help himself.

Watson's right eye muscle twitched, and Emilia's eyes widened, "Mary's with child?"

"There could very well be a _bun_ in the _oven_." Holmes nodded solemnly, replying in a conspiring tone.

"For the love of-" Watson took a deep, hissing breath. "If you so much as whisper the lie that Mary's pregnant again, I will… I'll… I'll.."

"Hit me with your cane?"

"Box your ears."

"Ah. That sounds serious."

"Quite. Now help me lift her, because you very well know I have a bad leg."

With a 'heave-ho' from Holmes and a lift from both, the two were soon trying to navigate the hallway with Mary in the air: Watson lifting her by the arms and Holmes at her feet. Emilia walked at a glacial pace behind them, watching with an amused expression as the two men tried to avoid breaking Watson's possessions.

"Watch out for the vase!" Watson said in warning, trying to make things easier for Holmes- who was forced to walk backwards.

"No need to worry, Watson, I'm sure that-"

There was a shattering of crystal that broke his reassurance, as the forewarned vase toppled to the ground.

"Terribly sorry." Holmes grimaced and kept walking. Though Emilia could swear that under his breath he muttered, "Ten points!"

After a few minutes, they'd successfully carted Mary to the side of the cobbled street, and eventually hailed a proper cab. With a few grunts and a lift, Mary was situated in the back, her head lolling against the side wall. Emilia climbed in afterward, sitting next to her. With a final nod to Watson, Holmes came in as well, taking the seat across from then.

"Remember, Holmes." Watson said anxiously. "No dangling."

"Or sacrificing to the homeless. Righto, Watson." He replied with a faint smirk, to which his friend rolled his eyes just before the carriage jolted forward.

The ride back to Baker's Street was a mostly silent, uneventful one. Holmes busied himself with counting the number of bumps in the road from his home to Watson's, while Emilia subconsciously found herself tapping out the rhythm of the cobblestones on her knee. Mary, ignorant to the tension in the air, remained unconscious.

Holmes critically regarded one of the women seated across from him, trying to dissect her thoughts. Her face was pale now, her blue green eyes dark as they surveyed the world outside the window. A good portion of her bun had fallen, leaving the waves of rust to fall in places to her shoulders. Altogether, she looked disheveled.

Finally he spoke. "When was the last time you saw a dead man, Hawkins?"

She glanced over at him for a second before returning her gaze to the window. "A few years ago. My area of-" here she smirked slightly, "- expertise does not usually dip into the unseemly world of manslaughter." She turned to look at him, straight in the eye. Holmes shifted in his seat slightly, her gaze a bit unnerving.

"Have you ever killed a man, Holmes?" she asked, looking completely serious.

Holmes sucked in a breath, though his face remained impassive. "Yes. Sometimes one finds oneself in a situation where it's inevitable. Where they would kill you unless you kill them. It's justified in that way."

"And what if…" Emilia trailed off, her eyes still locked to his brown ones. "What if it's not entirely justified?"

After clearing his throat uncomfortably, he spoke, quirking an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

Emilia sighed. "Nothing, just forget it. I was just letting my mind wander to past thoughts. Best to keep them unsaid."

He spoke again, unable to pass up an opportunity to learn more about her. She was a puzzle, and puzzles were meant to be solved. "Have you ever killed before?"

She was silent for a moment, looking back out the window again. "Yes."

"Might I ask-"

"I thought a bloke raped a friend. When he came after her, I killed him without finding out all of the facts. Turns out it had been co-sensual. I told myself I'd never act without thinking everything through again. Actually, it's probably better that I found that out early on. I probably wouldn't be so good at what I do had I not learned that the hard way." Emilia interrupted him, still looking out the window. "And that was the only time I killed in a way that was 'unjustified'. Though I suppose our meaning of the word differs in some ways."

Holmes hesitated, unsure if in this moment he was meant to console her or something. Assure her that mistakes occurred. But the look on her face and the lack of words he had for the situation stopped him. Instead he coughed again as the carriage pulled up to 221B Baker's Street, hopping out eagerly after opening the door, letting the solemn mood dissolve.

When he looked up, back into the carriage, he found himself looking at the set, composed face of Emilia Hawkins- not the girl he'd found in the carriage who'd been so much like the one he'd met in prison. She climbed down before he could offer her his hand- he was suspicious about whether she would have taken it anyway, had he done it- and they both stared contemplatively at the ever-still unmoving Mary Morstan.

"Well." Holmes said, his tone brisk. "I suppose I'll grab her arms, you grab her legs."

Emilia looked up and over at him. "What? You can't carry her yourself?"

"Blasted skirts of hers make everything difficult, and we have to pull her up multiple flights of stairs, Hawkins."

"Fine. But how do you suppose we get her out of the carriage?" Emilia sighed, rubbing her temples.

"I guess that throwing her would be out of the question?"

"Decidedly so."

A sigh escaped Holmes's lips. "Roll her, then."

Emilia nodded and went over to the other side of the carriage, opening the door and attempting to push Mary through to Holmes's side. She ended up tumbling face first towards the street, narrowly missing the curb as Holmes snagged her arms, pulling her into a lifted position with her legs hanging onto the carriage seat.

"Hawkins- Hawkins!" Holmes said in alarm, as the angle she was in was very inconvenient for all purposes of holding her upright. "Grab her legs- quickly!"

Emilia launched herself across the seat and eased Mary out before Holmes dropped her on her face. "Got it!"

"Right, then. Ease her up the stairs." Holmes instructed as they edged closer to their lodgings.

"Sideways?"

"That's probably best."

At a slow pace the two managed to hoist Mary up the concrete steps to the front door, which was opened by a very alarmed Mrs. Hudson.

"Mr. Holmes, what on Earth did you-"

"I assure you, Nanny, this is most definitely not my fault." Holmes snapped, groaning in frustration as he pushed past the older woman, Mary and Emilia still in tow.

"Now we'll just spread her out on the kitchen counter!" he announced.

Mrs. Hudson gasped. "You will certainly not! Put Dr. Watson's young woman in a proper bed until she comes to."

Holmes began to protest, but upon receiving the evil eye from his landlady, relented. "Oh, very well. Come on, Hawkins."

And so they managed to half lift, half drag Mary up the steep, carpeted stair case until the halfway landing between flights, where they dumped her unceremoniously as they took a breather- both panting heavily.

"Are her skirts inlined with lead?" Holmes demanded, glaring at the unconscious lady's clothes disdainfully.

"How on earth is she still unconscious? It's been thirty minutes! Is she dead?" Emilia huffed in frustration, leaning against the wall behind her.

"No. But I will say one thing for Miss Morstan. When she is knocked out, she is decidedly so." Holmes replied, taking up her arms again with the air of a martyr, gesturing for Emilia to do the same with her feet.

A good ten minutes later, Mary was sprawled out on Emilia's bed, and her two human lifts were sitting tiredly on the wooden floor.

Emilia leaned her head back against the wall, letting loose a deep sigh. Her gaze flickered over to Holmes, who was in a similar position, but not resting his arm on his knee. "Do things like this always happen at dinners you go to?"

"Not necessarily. About twenty percent of them go off without a hitch." Holmes replied, sweeping his hand over his face and ruffling his hair in the process. Emilia laughed quietly, and Holmes looked over at her with a slightly baffled look on his face. Her laugh was actually a quite pleasant sound, when truthful.

"Well, as my first dinner in a while- one that I've actually been invited to by respectable company, no less- I must say, Holmes. Life with you will hardly be boring." Emilia smiled, looking up at the ceiling distractedly.

He gave her a sharp look, "Did you just admit that you'll remain in my…" His what? Home? He snorted at the thought. His confinement? That would go over well. Reminding her she was his charge.

"With me?" he finally decided, though it was mildly bewildering to himself why he chose something that sounded so… personal. Holmes might have shuddered at the thought.

Emilia looked over at him, confused. His expression was calculating. "Well, I-"

"John?" A weak voice came from the bed, and Holmes broke eye contact with her, raising himself off the floor. With a sigh, Emilia followed, walking up to the bed and sitting on its side, next to Mary.

Immediately Mary grabbed her hand, and Emilia forced back the reflex to swat her hand away, unprepared for the sudden contact. "Mary, how do you feel?" she asked, concerned but calculating.

"I… I… Mr. Holmes, might I have a glass of water?" Mary asked hoarsely, her voice a mumble.

Holmes gave a brisk nod, walking out of the room toward the stairs, all the while yelling, "Nanny! Miss Morstan has awoken, and I know you'll flail me if I neglect to tell you of her change in consciousness! NANNY!"

A breezy chuckle brushed past Emilia's lips, but the startled look in Mary's eyes never stopped.

"…Mary, what's wrong?" she frowned.

Mary blinked up at her, the grip on her hand tightening greatly. "The… man.. in the alleyway…"

"… He was my brother."

**-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-**

**Well, there you have it. The long awaited update! Once again, sincerest apologies Dear Readers! Life seemed to get in the way for quite a while! And this is kinda short, but I wanted to get it out there. Well, I guess page-wise it's nearish to the same, but a lot's dialogue, so word-wise… Anyway…**

**I thought you all should know that I am now in possession of a rather nice double-billed detective's hat of the sort Holmes wore in the olden days! And adore it I do! Even more than my Draco Malfoy wig.**

**I'm an odd individual.**

**And if you want this individual to update, then REVIEW!**

**PLUSHIE WATSONS AND HOLMESS TO ALL WHO REVIEW!**

**(voodoo push pins optional)**

Holmes: Woman, I don't think that's the plural of my name…

**Watson: Ooh, try 'Holmesi'.**

**Me: Facepalm. But hooray for vast quantities of snow that cancel all forms of education and work! LE WHOOOP!**

**REVIEW! All the cool Holmesi lovers are doing it! **


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